


The Purple Pricks of Doctor Vee

by ellakala



Category: The Rolling Stones
Genre: Back Pain, Chiropractor, Chronic Pain, Doctor/Patient, Erotica, F/F, F/M, Fame, Flashdance - Freeform, Humor, Lidocaine, Masks, Medical Kink, Mommy Issues, Necks, Other, Painkillers, Painplay, Pandemics, Physical Therapy, Rolling Stones - Freeform, Self-Improvement, singer/songwriter, wife - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26376367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellakala/pseuds/ellakala
Summary: A singer-songwriter struggles with neck pain and sees some wild medical experts in Los Angeles. After meeting the Rolling Stone's internist, she's directed to a pain doctor who injects her with more than lidocaine. It's erotic but PG 13 - more suggestive than explicit.





	The Purple Pricks of Doctor Vee

Cursed with neck pain for five years, I'd seen every pain expert in Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Santa Monica, California. I'd had one doc tell me my left leg was too long, and it threw off my spinal alignment. He made a clay model of my foot and gave me orthotics. One in-demand, sacral-cranial guy, who was deathly allergic to pets and made me change my clothes before I entered his office, exploded in sneezes when he worked on me and, claiming he saw a cat hair, refused to see me again. A bald chiropractor "healer" looked at my x-rays, then at me like I was dying and asked, "Did you take a substantial amount of drugs when you were younger?" 

"I mean, I've smoked some pot, but no actually." That guy was a dick.  
Surgeons have wanted to saw out my rib and/or fuse my neck vertebrae together. One physical therapist named Tawny asked how my pregnancy had been.

"Actually," I answered like, how did she know? "I had a retained placenta and hemorrhaged a lot of blood post-partum," I replied.

"Oh, well, your neck pain may be due to scar tissue inside. I can go with my hand, into through your vagina, and work on your cervix. The feeling is quite intense, but I recommend it." Tawny looked and seemed legit as I lay before her on the massage table in the Culver City medical office, a print of a dolphin leaping from an ocean on the wall.

"Um," I stalled, "I'm not exactly ready for that yet."  
When I left her office that day, I wondered about that. Was Tawny hitting on me? Her skin was brown with freckles, quite peppy and robust with mighty thighs. Did she think that sticking her sturdy finders up inside me would fix my neck? Maybe that would be the answer. But I put it off, still trying to collect more data, not entirely convinced.

One very handsome Dr. Cyrus in Marina Del Rey tried to help. He was about 6'4", and burly, mocha-colored with a wide bright smile. Cyrus put me under a few times and injected my nerves, then my joints with different concoctions of lidocaine and steroids. He looked so cute in his green medical pants. I must have looked ridiculous in that lame-ass blue cap they make you wear, the gown, opened in the back, and the non-slip socks they give you to keep you warm.

He noted my height (5'10") and weight (140), taking in stats for the right mix of anesthesia. He made me laugh, and later, in his office, when I saw him for my recheck, I asked him, "What's your heritage?"

"Oh, he looked shy and suddenly self- aware," I'm half Haitian, half Indian."

"Wow. It's a great combination. You are lovely."

He blushed and smiled shyly as we wrapped up the appointment. His injections worked for a bit, but four days later, my pain was back. A week later, he wrote to me (and all his patients) saying he and his family were moving to D.C. to start a practice there. Goodbye, Dr. Cyrus. I'll miss your pretty smile.

As a songwriter in L.A., I end up in unusual situations. A few months ago, I found myself chatting to Keith Richards and Charlie Watts at an intimate Rolling Stones event at the Four Seasons. It was a thrill to meet those guys, and as more Stones drifted in, I met the one in the entourage I really wanted to meet, the Stone's traveling doctor.  
Dr. Bob travels with the band, and when anything illness-related happens to any of them on tour, he arranges the best medical care in whichever city they're currently performing.

We stood there at the outdoor bar, celebrating the life of the Stone's main ticket provider, the Mother Fucking Ticket Queen (as Keith dubbed her long ago) Shelly. We drank Shelly's favorite drink, peach and orange mimosas, discussing my body and the fabulous doctors he knew in Los Angeles. He said, looking deeply into my brown eyes, "Yes. I can help you. Give me a call" and handed me his card.

My hair was long brown curls then, and I glowed in an orange and brown backless dress and high shoes. Bob flirted a little, and so did I, but it was all in the name of getting Mick Jagger's Doctor to fix my neck. My husband was at the other end of the small party, busy doing his networking, so it was a rock-star successful night for us both.

Dr. Bob led me to a guy at Cedars, Doctor Vee. By the time I found Vee, the COVID-19 pandemic was in full swing. Our first chat was on the phone. He looked nice and talked fast as he tracked my story, the various procedures I'd tried, the location of my pain, when it was bad, and when it was worse.

He looked a bit older than I, greying at the temples, but he seemed markedly upbeat in his glasses, confident that he could help me. We scheduled an appointment for the next week.

When I arrived, various nurses and receptionists took my temperature up and down the hallways. I passed the test every time as they escorted deeper and deeper into the office rooms. I landed in a small sterile room with a table and a computer, sink, and drawers, multiple bottles of hand sanitizer on the grey counter. But the window! 

It must have been 10' by 10' and a crazy view of the Sunset Strip and the Hollywood Sign too. A gorgeous, sparkly L.A. day. And I waited there in my flip flops, leggings, and yoga top with one arm pulled out of its strap for easier access.

"Knock knock," I heard a voice say as knuckles struck the opening door simultaneously. When the man in blue scrubs whooshed into the room, I could feel a breeze accompany him and his graceful body.

"Hi, I'm doctor V," he said and reached out his elbow to touch mine.

Cute, I thought. He's younger than he looked on the phone. About my height, soft brown hair, and laughing child-like eyes. Little soft belly. Sweet. Cute. But I wasn't here for fun and games. I had brought my files and had a plan.

"Hi. So, It's my scalene and my upper trap. It could be pec minor, and I wouldn’t rule out infraspinatus." I'd learned so much, I could communicate in medical pig-Latin now. 

He smiled and concurred and gave me an exam. "Put your arms out," he instructed. I did.  
"Resist me," he said. I pushed back. "Lift your arms above your head. Does that hurt?" 

“No.” And back and forth, in and out, up and down.

"Ok, sit on the stool and face away from me." He took out an inky pen and gently pressed it into my skin.

"Is this a spot?" he pressed on the inside of my shoulder blade (scapula meets low-trap).

"Ah, yes, good." My eyes rolled up in hope and sensation, dreaming that my pain would shortly disappear.

"Good. Ok, how about this spot?" he pressed into what I call my Petticoat Junction (the crevasse at the intersection of my neck and inner shoulder-top.) 

"Oh, god, yes!" so hopeful as he proceeded to spot me with his pen 9 or 10 times.

"Ok, you're going to feel a little prick. Let me know if it's ok."

"Alright." And he began, starting with my mid-trap.

"One. How's that?"

"It's ok, not too bad." I felt a slight sting, but the juice flowing into my muscle felt like a cool shower of mist on an overheated muscle. 

"Two." The needle went deeper. I liked it. "Oh, that's a zinger, right?"

"Yes, how did you know, doctor?"

"I can see your muscle spasming. It's ok. It'll be better soon."

"Yes. More, I need more."

"Yes, I can see that. I hope I'm not stimulating you too much." Vee laughed and continued jabbing me up and down my bones and spine.

I laughed back, "No, during this lockdown, stuck at home, I need all the stimulation I can get."

"Well," as his pricks kept coming, "I'm glad I can provide you with the stimulation you need now."

This guy is so flirting with me, and I'm loving every minute of his kind, expert attention, the needles, the hope for a life without squirming around trying to find release. Oh, sweet release! Yes, Yes, more!

As he continued inserting his magic juices into my half-naked back, I sensed liquid running down my back and shoulders. I couldn't turn to see, as I was trying to stay still, but I imagined blood dripping all over me. Blood. Am I bleeding?  
A blonde female nurse in crocs walked in to assist and take some notes. Now the three of us in our masks chatted and laughed as he stabbed, and I asked him about the blood running down my body.

"No, it's not blood. Don't worry. It's the lidocaine.” As I slowly turned my head, I freaked out a little, seeing streams of purple liquid drip and dribble down my skin.

"Oh my! Purple blood. I'm an alien," as I burst into song, "She's an alien, alien on the floor."

As he pricked me for the last time, he sang along, "and she's dancing like she's never danced before."

I think I am falling in love with this guy as I say, "love that movie! Fame!"

"Yeah, Fame! What a great movie!" and he stopped pricking. Vee circled in front to face me and, looking down, said, "You did a great with that. You're going to feel better, I just know it. Come back again and see me anytime. Really. Anytime."

I thanked him, we touched elbows again, and he walked out the room singing OUR song, when the nurse said, a little peeved, "that's not from Fame, you know. It's from Flashdance."

"Oh, yeah, I guess you're right. Ha Ha. Wow, that doctor Vee is great." As I conjured his smiling eyes, wondering whether his lips might be full — the mystery of his mouth and chin.

"Oh yes, and don't let him fool you; he's really smart."

Yes, I could tell. And I pray that Vee cured my pain. But if not, I will definitely come back for more of his purple pricks.


End file.
